


Sherlock Holmes Lives

by cabintardlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Reichenbach Falls, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabintardlock/pseuds/cabintardlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock took the fall and Greg was demoted, he became obsessed with one thing: how Sherlock Holmes survived the fall. If there was one thing he knew, it was that Sherlock was clever enough to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes Lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parchment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchment/gifts).



> For the amazing lestradebbc (parchment) for the secret santa, I hope you like it!

“It was the bungee rope, that had to be it!” Greg said decisively, blowing across the top of his coffee. It made little ripples across the liquid, and for a second he couldn't take his eyes off the tiny movement.

“How could it possibly be a bungee rope, that's completely ridiculous!” Anderson protested, waving his arm for emphasis. “You really think that happened?”

“Yeah, I do!”

“Boss, he's gone. Sherlock Holmes killed himself, and that's all there was to it!”

“I told you to not call me that anymore.” Greg said gruffly, looking down.

“Sorry, force of habit.” he said, looking away awkwardly.

“It isn't an unapproachable subject.” Greg sighed, his hand tightening around the paper cup. “I'm just a desk jockey now, and tiptoeing around the subject won't change it.”

“Alright...” Anderson muttered, nudging the ground with his foot.

“How has it been working with Donovan? I always knew she'd make a good DI someday. Just didn't know it would happen so soon.”

“It's been good, she's very good at ordering people around.” Anderson said. “Not as good as you of course.”

Greg cracked a smile at that, the lines carved by weariness smoothing out in that split-second.

“I'm not sure if that's a compliment.” he said, taking a sip of the still-too-hot coffee. It burned his tongue, but he took another sip.

“Really though, Lestrade, you need to let it go.” Anderson insisted, and Greg tensed again. “It happened months ago, and that's all it was!”

“Yeah, well, I don't.” Greg stated, taking a deep breath in. “I still believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

“It won't bring him back from the dead, boss.”

* * *

 

Greg tacked up another paper, this one about the credibility of the witnesses. How did no one see Sherlock's escape strategy? Why was John knocked down like that, and what did he miss? How did he do it?

Rolling his neck, he stepped back to survey the board he'd made, nearly tripping over the stacks of other papers on the floor. He reached down to pick up another mess of papers, these detailing the likelihood and facts about Sherlock surviving via a blast of air coming from the pavement right before he hit the ground. It didn't seem too likely, but this was Sherlock Holmes.

Thinking of the fall made his stomach turn, and Anderson's words had been going running though his head. It was his fault though, it truly was. If he had just been more stubborn, stood up to the chief of police, been there for the man he'd known for so long perhaps Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have jumped. That's why he had to still be alive, the suicide had to be fake.

Greg let the papers slip from his hands, fluttering to the ground and adding to the clutter as he made his way wearily to the couch. It only took a couple sweeps of his hand to get all the papers and books off the cushions, and reaching for his scotch bottle, he found that it was exactly where he knew it'd be.

It had started with a drink every once in a while, but it had shifted to two or three a night. Greg wondered sometimes if it was a problem, and he wondered if he cared.

Slumping down with his drink, Greg thought of John, who he hadn't talked to in months. He'd found John in similar positions. Still, he was sure that he and John were different. John was mourning, but Greg knew the truth. He was just waiting.

From the plush cushions he jolted forward, struck by a sudden inspiration. Something in his mind told him that it was a bad idea and that he was drunk, but he didn't care. Grabbing a coat and some supplies (which he had in some old boxes), Greg rushed out the door, only stumbling slightly over the steps down to the street.

He wasn't sure where to do it at, he just knew he wanted it somewhere that would be very visible in the morning. Looking around for cops, Greg couldn't help but giggle (a boring person would say hysterically) at the irony of it. Still he worked on, arms sweeping wide to form shaky work, but it was still legible.

Greg wondered if the members of the club he formed would be proud of him.

Looking at his watch, he realized that he wouldn't have time to do anything else, but it was enough. Lurching off, Greg traveled to a road fairly far away before hailing a taxi. The cabbie didn't seem to like his drunkenness, but she would still take his money.

In the morning, the sunlight gleamed off of the buildings, and in bright red spray paint a message could be easily seen.

Sherlock Holmes Lives.

* * *

 

Looking back, Greg couldn't believe how fast his life had turned around. It had started when a particularly bad night had landed him drunk in the holding cells, and his coworkers saw how truly broken he'd become. They got him into a rehab program, which wasn't easy.

Now he was back where he'd been before the mess with Sherlock (he still tried not to think about it too much.) Greg was a detective inspector who only drank very occasionally in pubs with good friends, he was someone you saw as stable. Greg was fine with that.

Twitching at something he thought he heard, he looked around carefully. After a moment, he took out a pack and lifted a cigarette to his mouth, shrugging his shoulders up against the cold. Flicking his lighter on, he shielded the flame with one hand and brought the flickering fire up to his mouth.

“Those things'll kill you.”

Greg froze. He knew that voice, he definitely knew it but it couldn't be. It just couldn't.

He slowly lowered the lighter, feeling a horrible rush of thoughts and emotions. He knew he should be angry but instead there seemed to be an overwhelming feeling of happiness, of relief.

Greg was right, he was right along.

Sherlock had ruined his life for two years, but goddamn it he was right.

Sherlock Holmes was back, and it was just up to Gregory on how to take it.

With his features set but his eyes dancing with a smile, he slowly turned around.

“Ooh, you bastard!”

 


End file.
